


Nothing Changes

by PantyDragon



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Guilt, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV First Person, dubious everything, loki/billy kaplan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PantyDragon/pseuds/PantyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Either Loki grew into this new body on the simple virtues of good genetics or Billy's loneliness got the better of him. At least, that's Loki's rationale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Changes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really not especially happy with this. I envisioned something very different, but I've been fiddling with it for too long, time to let it out into the wild to be free.

It’s not what I expected – not exactly – but it’s not bad.

This ship is a many-splendored thing: not alive, but organically sensitive. Faced with a staggering vanity such as my own, it has the courtesy and good sense to greet me with a cabin absolutely _plated_ with mirrors. I stop dead in the doorframe. The light is soft, my reflections indistinct in the shadows, but still the sight is jarring just the same. Distractedly, I press a flat tile by the door and the light brightens.

How peculiar to be faced yet again with a reflection I don’t recognize.

Leaning in close to the nearest mirror I smile curiously, gathering shadows along lines and angles that hadn’t been there just hours before. I suppose I expected to resemble my old self, but then again, why should I? The child’s body was new flesh of it’s own and whatever I am now – well, there’s nothing of _that_ Loki left in this world.

I peer critically at the glass, tilting my chin back and creasing my forehead. The bridge of my nose is rather broader than I would have liked, and my chin a bit narrow, but I have good brows, I think. Expressive. They suit me. My mouth is exceptional as well. I touch my tongue to my lips.

I do it again, more slowly, for good measure.

My gaze drifts from my ears (unremarkable) along my jaw and down my throat. Mesmerized, I shrug out of the coat and begin fumbling at the ties and ring hooks on my armor. It’s a struggle, being that I can hardly bear to look away from my own reflection, but I manage. My shirt comes up in stages as I examine my stomach, then my chest: slightly downy and pleasantly toned in spite of still being rather small of frame. I stretch my arms over my head and run my fingers through my hair, admiring the tense and pull of new muscle.

Over the course of a few incisive minutes I manage to strip entirely naked and walk a few laps across the small room, standing on my toes and turning a bit as I examine myself.

To think: that round-faced, pert-nosed little brat had all this potential.

I feel inclined to congratulate Billy. I wonder if he’s pleased with himself.

A sly grin betrays the thought a dozen times over in as many panes of glass.

I can’t say with any certainty how much design input he actually had, but magic and genetics are not good bedfellows. One influence won over. He’d had a passing thought for me, surely?

My smile turns wicked. It’s plain enough who has his heart, but an uncertain mind does wander. I wonder if there will be an unacknowledged hunger in his eyes when he looks at me now. I wonder if I will cross his mind as he lies alone in bed.

Curious, is it Billy or narcissism that is kicking up my pulse? Difficult to say. I am still a stranger to my own image – and I’m my type – but I’ve spent months catching glimpses of Billy’s unguarded face as Teddy runs a hand up his thigh under the table. I’ve spent longer thinking of what they do when the whole team _isn’t_ watching.

I am overcome suddenly by the image of my fist curled in his hair, his lips flushed and parted. A rush of warmth settles in my stomach.

I could have him, I’m sure of it. Bending him to my will would be as easy as a whisper in his ear. I know, I’ve done it before.

Nothing changes. Even now am I truly myself: arrogant, selfish, impulsive.

Carefully I slide my pants up over my hips, slip my shirt over my head, and step barefoot into the hallway. The air is warm and silent, the running lights dim. I can hear the distant thrum of the engines through the paneling.

I’ve taken several confident steps before a burning torrent like nausea washes over me and settles heavy in my ribs, crushing my heart until it flutters desperately.

_You ruined his life._

I smirk wolfishly, it’s the best defense I can muster.

_You’ve jeopardized everything he loves, you’ve taught him to truly hate himself, and now you mean to creep into bed with him._

“Would you shut up,” I snarl, “you haven’t even hit puberty yet.”

_It’s comforting to know the sort of man I’ve become._

“You’ve become nothing, you’re dead!”

The illusion – and with it the tightness in my chest – fades to nothing as quickly as it materialized, and soon the thudding of my heart slows. I swallow thickly. Eventually I’m sure to be heard talking to myself, and somehow I suspect the team will not find it charming.

I take a few deep breaths. This warped memory cannot rule me. I will not be a slave to the whims of a mercurial mind and a lingering phantom. Guilt or no, my wants have not faded. Walking slowly, I let my hand trail along the wall until I reach Billy’s door.

I wet my lips with my tongue, artfully muss my hair, and let my shoulders go slack. Haggard is pitiful, but enthusiastic is suspicious. I aim for somewhere in between. With two knuckles I tap timidly at the door and for several seconds there is no response, but I am patient.

Finally, the door slides open and he stands blearily in the frame, wearing pyjama pants covered in rubber duckies and a faded tee shirt that plainly doesn’t belong to him. He frowns sharply at the sight of me, then a small smile crosses his face.

“Geez, I didn’t recognize you for a second,” he laughs, rubbing his eyes.

I let myself smile weakly. “Well, nor did I, if we’re being honest.” I sigh, uncertainty painted deliberately on my face. “I’ve woken you. I’m sorry, It’s just – I…never mind, we can talk in the morning.”

Pique his interest; we can’t be having this conversation on the doorstep.

His brow furrows. “You okay, Loki?”

“As ever.” I make as though to turn back down he hallway.

“Hey.”

I know he can’t see me smirk.

“Come in for a minute.”

I’ve been inside his cabin before. I like it here, it’s so much more…human than mine. He has half a dozen photos stuck to the wall with tape: old-fashioned Polaroids with felt-tip scrawl on the frames. Nostalgia. The bed is large enough to make it painfully obvious that he hadn’t been sleeping alone until recently, and the sheets have tiny Rebel Alliance insignias on them. He’d fallen asleep with some kind of soft trance music playing.

He sits heavily on the bed and materializes a chair for me with an ease I envy. I rest my forearms on my thighs and carefully avoid eye contact.

“What’s up?” He asks, his voice gentle and low with tiredness. “Bad dreams?”

I smile, sadly, and glance up at him. “No, I…just wanted to thank you.”

He smirks. “For…what? The new abs?”

Freudian. I knew it.

I laugh. “Well, that’s nothing to sneer at, certainly…” I dampen my lips again. “Look...Billy. I know the impact of the choices I made. I’ve wronged you in a great many ways, I’ve lied and I’ve manipulated you, but for whatever reason you still see fit to trust me, and you’re the only person I know who does. I’m not certain I deserve that trust, but…thank you.”

The shard of truth is strangely sweet on my tongue but it doesn’t last. For a while, he says nothing, but he holds my eyes.

“That has to be the last thing I ever expected you to say to me, especially at one in the morning.”

“I’ve made a career of defying expectation, though usually in less cordial ways.”

He’s examining me, with what reason I can’t say exactly.

“Loki,” he murmurs finally, “whatever you were, whatever you’ve done, I’m not saying I forgive you – because _that_ you definitely don’t deserve – but it’s in the past. Call me naïve, but I believe that people can change.”

“You are naïve,” I smile, “tragically so, but I do sincerely hope that you’re right.”

His eyes never leave mine. “Yeah, me too.”

My gaze softens, and as I watch him I call up the very subtlest of glamours. The pitch of my voice lowers just a fraction, my tone changes, and when I say quietly “You’re a far better person than I am, Billy,” I can see in his eyes that he’s been inexplicably reminded of Teddy. He, of course, can’t explain why. He shifts uncomfortably.

I sit back in my chair, slowly running my palms up my thighs as I go. He notices, and thinks he’s imagining things.

The silence thereafter is telling: I’ve played my leading hand. If he asks me to leave I will, but if I’ve played wisely he won’t ask.

“Is that really what keeps the god of mischief up at night?”

“Pardon?”

“Thinking of the people you’ve wronged?”

It’s difficult not to smile. Instead, I pause to run my fingers through my hair. “Not _everyone_ , not lately.” I glance away as my fingertips brush casually down the back of my neck. “Lately it’s just you.”

He says nothing, but his lips part slightly.

I may actually be enjoying this more than I would enjoy sleeping with him. He keeps his composure – he’s had practice – but the constant, steady erosion of his confidence has made him so very tractable, so susceptible to influence.

I am a famously bad influence.

My potential as a sexual being has occurred to him now, I can tell by the way he places his hands near his hips, the way his gaze drifts away from my eyes. The trick here is not to push too hard. I’m picking a lock, not kicking down a door. Above all else, he must still trust me when this is over.

“You look pale.” I add quietly, injecting just a bit more of Teddy’s voice into mine.

He seems startled. Not by the glamour, it’s far too subtle. He’s afraid I’ve seen weakness in him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you. You must be tired.”

“I – No, I’m fine.”

It’s the perfect excuse to ask me to leave, but he doesn’t.

I smile tenderly. “You’re a very poor liar.”

He laughs. “No, really.”

Slowly, deliberately, I stand and cross the few feet of space between us. He balks slightly as I close the distance, but nothing more. Careful not to be too rough, I take his chin between my thumb and forefinger and smile. “Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to, Kaplan? I _invented_ lying. Look me dead in the eye and lie to me, I dare you.”

He stiffens defensively, but doesn’t pull away.

“Go on.”

Beyond his eyes I fancy I can see the unfathomable vastness of the power inside him, his own consciousness like so many fearful, shattered points of light drifting in the firmament. How very lost he is, how truly alone.

The hitch in his breathing brings my attention back to his lips. “I’m not sure I could sleep if I wanted to.”

With my fingers on his skin I can feel the distant pounding of his heart. “That,” I whisper “is the truth.” My thumb slides along his jaw.

I can see the impulse to pull away flash behind his eyes, but he remains still; bloodless fingers splayed out on the duvet, pupils dilated. Rapt.

It’s too easy, painfully easy. His doubt has remade him in its own image, and in spite of everything, some desperate part of him wants so badly to be touched and wanted and reminded that he is tangible.

I swallow, my hand begins to tremble and I let my breath go ragged. Let him think he’s the one who’s caught me off guard. Let him think I’m as vulnerable as he is.

I mustn’t move too fast, but nor must I allow him to come back to his senses.

My free hand rests on the mattress by his leg, and I take a shuddering breath.

“Loki – ”

The press of my lips against his stifles the uncertainty in his voice. He bristles, but I lean in against him and – hesitantly – he kisses me back.

The sweetness of victory lingers on him. For a few heartbeats I feel him shaking, but in the warm tumult he seems to forget his misgivings. Gently, he grips the hair at the nape of my neck and presses his tongue into my mouth.

His fervor is intoxicating, and this unpracticed body is determined to thwart centuries of surfeit. I rest a palm on his thigh; his muscles tighten beneath the thin flannel.

Suddenly – and clumsily – his fingers curl in one of my belt loops and he pulls me down onto the bed with him. He lets me slide my hand up his shirt. I think he groans softly, but I don’t know my own voice well enough to be sure it wasn’t me. I like the way he pulls my hair as I dig my nails into the firm skin of his stomach.

His right leg fits neatly between my thighs and I press my cock against his inseam. I can feel him panting whenever our lips part for an instant. Tact is becoming ever more difficult and ever less critical. I have him. He’s mine. With fierce efficiency I raise a stinging mark on his neck to prove it. He does not protest.

With one hand on the small of my back he rocks his hips askant against mine. I encourage him, panting softly against his neck and tightening my grip on his waist.

He lets me hurriedly pull off his shirt, even helps with mine, but when I begin to tug at the ties on his pants, he falls abruptly still.

“Loki…” he catches my wrist, breathless, his grip so firm that I fear he could break my wrist if he chose. The fear in his eyes is staggering and beautiful, but he can’t quite bring himself to tell me no.

I pause for a few breaths. “It’s all right,” I murmur distractedly, running a hand gently down his stomach.

“Loki, please, don’t…”

I press my forehead to his, hushing him soothingly. “You don’t owe him anything, Billy,” I whisper, “you’ve no cause to feel guilt at his expense.”

There is a plea in his gaze, the look of one betrayed by his own heart, but he lets his grip go slack and my hand sides beneath his waistband. I brush my lips along his collarbone as I touch him and his whole body arches against me.

He relents. His fingers fumble blindly at my fly as I slip his pyjamas down over his hips, and when his trembling hand palms my cock a shiver runs down my spine. I press him hard into the duvet, biting at his neck and shoulders, pushing his hand aside to rut shallowly against his bare thigh. His skin is hot and soft and I’d gladly come as I am, but what a wasted opportunity that would be.

I stroke him tenderly a few more times before letting my hand wander lower, and I can tell by the first press of my fingertips that he hasn’t been fucked in a while. I would guess that such was the case even before Teddy left, and I’m aware that this may be my fault. I take extra care with him by way of atonement.

He flinches as my fingers penetrate him; I hush him with a gentle brush of my lips on his sternum and the heel of my hand on his cock. He rocks back against my fingers, inviting me to press deeper. I oblige gladly.

For a feverish moment I want desperately to ask him to top me. I want to see him blush at my perfected wantonness and love it in spite of himself and his vanilla sensibilities and his sweet, teenage romance. I resist the compulsion. I know he would rather be coddled and murmured to and fucked with a gentle authority that will allow him no more room for self-reflection.

He sighs faintly as I withdraw my fingers, and when I press my cock against the warm curve of his ass he flushes pink, trembling all over. I ease into him with practiced restraint, forcing a pained gasp past his lips and sending his pulse racing. His erection flags for a moment, but I keep my thrusts gentle and pant my longing in his ear and he quickly forgets the faint ache for heat and wet friction.

His breaths become sharper, punctuated with soft, pleading cries that he fights halfheartedly to stifle, and as he all but begs for me I am forced to acknowledge that I have nowhere near the callous control I had so lately prided myself on. He curls his fists into the duvet and rocks back against me in time, and I am powerless to slow the desperate tightening in my stomach. The warmth of him makes my head spin.

I intend to ask his permission, but I can’t quite find my voice. I climax with a dizzying gasp, spurred on by the way he arches and tenses beneath me. Before I withdraw I rest my forehead on his sternum for a moment, and he curls his fingers tenderly in my hair. There is a strange hollowness in my stomach, and it has nothing to do with exhaustion.

When I have my breath back, I pull out slowly. He shudders. I nip gently at the skin of his stomach, slide my tongue slowly into his navel, then take his cock into my mouth. He lets out a slow breath and his grip on my hair tightens. I love the way he feels on the flat of my tongue far more than I love his helplessness. I love the taste of him. He rolls his hips so perfectly that I already wish I could have him again.

I become so lost in pleasing him that I almost don’t hear Teddy’s name on his lips as he comes.

He lies still for a while as I sit back on my heels and touch my wrist to my lips. I can’t help but stare down at him: flush and picturesque, with the wet glint of semen and saliva on his stomach in the dim light, but his gaze remains vacant. Slowly, he sits up, wincing slightly, pulling his knees to his chest and pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. His fingers slide into his hair as a shuddering exhale passes his lips.

“I wish I could blame you,” he murmurs, “god, why did I…”

“Because you wanted to,” I lie with the shadow of a smile. It falls away quickly.

He looks up at me from beneath his wrists and suddenly I feel slightly sick. This is not something I was prepared for. There is no phantasm, no hallucination, just an empty feeling. Brusquely, I clamber off the bed and start to re-dress.

I should be doing damage control: I should be stroking his hair and kissing him and whispering sweetly in his ear until he forgets that I’m a liar and a deceiver, but my throat is drawn.

He doesn’t tell me to go, but when I do he doesn’t stop me.

As I lie sprawled on my bed I wish the phantom-brat would show up again. I wish I could sneer and scoff and rationalize in ever-widening circles around the hole in my gut. This is who I _am_. This is what I _do_. It’s not my fault the little fool _trusted_ me. I didn’t _force_ him.

Hours pass in sullen silence as I pick at the hem of my shirt, sometimes pacing, sometimes flat on my back. I keep recalling the press of his skin, and the fact that I’m hard again only makes it worse.

Finally, defeated and exhausted, I slink back into the hallway.

At the touch of my hand Billy’s door slides open silently. The ship may be intuitive, but it’s easy enough to trick. In the dim, cool light he lies curled protectively around a mess of blankets, silent as his fists curl and uncurl in the fabric. He’s asleep, but his lips are pressed tight together and I can see the damp tracks on his face. It takes me a lifetime to cross the small room.

His eyes snap open when I touch the side of his face, but he doesn’t have time to gasp, much less stop me. Murmured, archaic words hang in the air as I plunge into his defenseless consciousness, picking through his memories, finding the ones I want and cutting them cleanly from his mind, filling the holes with something fuzzy and mundane. As I finish with him his eyes go dim and sleepy.

“Loki?” He murmurs, only slightly alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“We’ve both had bad dreams, I think,” I whisper.

“I…Why are you in my room?”

“I’m sorry. Billy, I’m so sorry.”

“’S fine…”

“No, it’s not, go back to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I was never here.”

He has already begun drifting off, the lines between his brows smooth and untroubled.

“I was never here,” I lie quietly to myself.


End file.
